3 Poems
by C. S. Ward

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Yellow, Yellow, Yellow

The Air Force is a thrift store

for monarchs and I am one

of those monarchs. When I joined

the Air Force, I was handed a mix tape

of moments when I acted like my parents.

I like being a pilot, but I also do not

want to wear a mask of my old stuffed animals.

So I am relegated to a junior position.

I must find the reincarnation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

here in America. I am what you call:

yellow yellow yellow

which means I am a member of Solid Gold October:

a club I have made, where I follow the sun through the trees.

Divorced by the Moon

Peace, looks like they are holding hands

                                                                  A mirror


They don’t know each other

                                                   1989 Brooke Shields

I had been traveling with.

                                        This imaginary photographic world,

Like a child’s toy song:  8-4-4-4 elephant wing.

That I’d been traveling with.

                                Lost in the pained bus depot,

                                       The outline of a cat, in the hills

                                       of a worn out video loop.

I had been traveling with.

Let this candy bar be the one that I love for the rest of my life is gone,
That  I’d been traveling with.

In the earliest morning,

                                 a white butt

divorced by the moon,

I had been traveling with.

Sending thoughts out through a moving window:

                         My friends are all dreaming of the same barn

or shed

           that is

          beyond plain view.


It was a video about heat—how it is so elusive to grasp—

just up ahead, coming off the pavement.

The video had a small man attuned to beer.

He was desperately grasping

for heat off the top of air conditioners

from the night houses which lit

his terrible face.


He was a small movie leaking memories.

What he was feeling was from the commercial,

but weaker, more true.